’nuff ’s enough — my muff ’s matted . . my toes are black . . All around my prat, I will wear the green willow . . Benjie the horse stood still and miserable in his botched-up coat: a crocheted blanket and a nylon quilt held round him with clothes pegs. They’d bought him from a knacker’s for twenty quid, and he’d been their companion these last few months as they clopped up and down Middle Earth, from tepee hamlets to free festivals. — Ahem! It had been this stagey throat-clearing that had awoken her — the others were all still crashed out. Ahem! came again as she struggled to her feet and hopped. . clumsy Kanga . . towards shiny black boots and knife-edge creases running vertically from them to the pink cheeks of. . a piglet, who stood there, his breath dramatically smoking in the morning sunlight. Shining around him was the bright-white spun-sugariness of frosted bracken, and, as Genie stared, he raised his gloved hand to knock on the mossy bark of a tree. . like it was our front door, the prannet! She laughed delightedly — went on laughing as he explained: Sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s been some, ah. . well, some concern in the neighbourhood about this horse. People’re worried that he might not be getting fed properly. He should really be, ah. . stabled for the winter now. Genie let go of the sleeping bag and was disgorged. . from me own pouch: a tousle-headed Roo who deliberately pulled at the damp bunching of her skirt, tights and pullovers so he got a good look at her tits. . old ’abits die hard. She laughed again, but bitterly: Lissen, if it hadn’t’ve been for us, mate, this horse’d be glue by now and some dumb Mick’d probably be sniffing ’im. — Genie needed stabling as welclass="underline" it was cold and wet out in the woods — besides, now the Old Bill knew they were there, it’d only be a matter of time before trouble started. — She was gone before the others had rubbed the fungus dust from their eyes: standing on the M4 slip road, thumb and hip stuck out. . jaunty, like. The first lift was a Cavalier stinking of Victory V Lozenges, and with his free hand its driver got at her through her clothes — but he took her all the way to Shepherd’s Bush, where she begged for the bus fare. She sat on the top deck sipping one. . with Limeade, and looking down at the piles of rubbish lining the streets: black bags, rotten cardboard boxes, all sorts of stuff — the city. . shitting itself. She’d stood most of that afternoon on the wedge of pavement between Ballards Lane and the High Road — getting more and more narked as delivery drivers holding number plates were picked up by others of their kind. . fucking sexist bastards. Genie spent the time embellishing the BERKO she’d written on a bit of cardboard with more and more flowers and rainbows. The old codger who finally gave her a lift said he’d only stopped to find out, What it says on your sign there, love. He turned out to be solid gold, passing her Navy Cuts on the outskirts of Watford and standing her egg and chips in a café. The fat bint who ran it kept the tea refills coming while Genie and the codger — whose name was George — had a bit of a set-to about this and that, and finally Balcombe Street, ’cause Genie said that it wouldn’t’ve been so bloody dreadful if things had gone the other way. Uncle Georgie said, Such anger — wishing innocent people dead. I thought you hippies were meant to be all about peace. . and love. Genie said, Love don’t enter inter fings when you been done over by the State, ’sides, that couple, watching the telly in their nice flat — you tootling about in your Grenada, you’re all com. . com. . Complicit? George offered, and Genie said, Yeah, that’s right: you’re all complicit, the only way not to be complicit is to strike back any way you can — or else fuck off on the road like I done. . Then she shed a tear or two for Benjie left behind in the woods, and George gave her his hanky — which was civil of him. He said, We’ll just have to agree to differ, and after that he drove her back to Berkhamsted. . which was miles out of his way. — He let her out by the Odeon, where she saw the posters and a thrill went through her. That’s me, she thought, I’m a minnowy thing swimmin’ along on the surface kicking me tootsies, but down below there’s this fucking big monster that’s gonna bite me in half. . Genie recognised one or two old Ashlyns girls among the queuing couples who were already feeding on each other’s faces. Then she hurried home to the little terraced house four streets away with this jolly idea: Genie and Mumsie enjoying a reunion night out together at the cinema, the pair of them munching on popcorn, knocking back Cokes and chuckling away as the Berko berks oohed and aahed because this was. . the closest they’re ever likely to get to real life. — But Mumsie sits there. . the hatchet-faced old cow . . not saying nuffink — which is worse than when she’s angry, ’cause you know where you are with Mumsie’s anger: it’s. . relentless, always moving forward, always looking for more to. . eat. Mumsie without her anger — well, she’s. . dead in the water. Not that there was much in the way of actual fisticuffs any more — not since Genie landed one on the old bag that near laid ’er out cold. And not — more to the point — since Debbie and Genie had fucked right off out of it altogether, leaving Hughie to take the crap — not that he got any: Mumsie’s wistful little boysie, plinkety-plunketing on his acoustic guitar, My hair’s a-risin’, my flesh begin to crawl, My hair’s a-risin’, my flesh begin to crawl, I had a dream last night, babe, saw another mule in in my doggone stall. . But he wasn’t indoors. . prob’ly taken ’is crown jewels to some fifty-pee kiddie stomp. Come ooon, Genie wheedles, it’ll be a right laugh — you can’t tell me you don’t fancy seeing a bunch of Yank wankers getting eaten up by a dirty-great shark — yummy-yummy, munch-munch, all gone ’cept for a few denim shreds it can’t get outta its teef. — Nothing. Mumsie says nothing — only stares hard at Genie, her green eyes burning, her lips all puckered up, her nails digging into the chair’s arm — there’s not even an Embassy to be seen, and the poky front room is all spraunced up and stinking of. . Glade. Comesie-onsie, Mumsie, Genie baby-talks, puh-lease, pwitty puh-lease, Genie wants Jawsie, Mumsie, Genie wants Jawsie! — When the answer comes it’s a spray of blood and gob, and Genie realises: I wanted this — I pushed her to this ’cause she’s weak, and I don’t ’ave to run to the nooky shop any more, or London — I’ve crumpled up the dumb fucking letter, I ain’t afraid of breaking the chain. — Mumsie somehow manages to lisp and scream at the same time: YOU THAKING THE PITH! YOU THAKING THE PITH! Her trap’s flapping, her gums are all bloody and broken, her torn tongue curls into her raw gullet. . and there’re no teeth — she’s got no fucking teeth! — They go all the same: Genie holds Mumsie’s severed hand in the padded and acrid murk of the Odeon. A cone of light expands above their heads into Hooper’s bearded face, which says: This is what happens — the enormous amount of tissue loss prevents any detailed analysis. . Mumsie winces, her severed hand squeezes tighter. Hooper snaps at Chief Brody, I wanna be sure. You wanna be sure. We all wanna be sure. . Then he chats into his natty little tape recorder: Partially denuded bone. . Massive tissue loss. . With her free hand Genie grabbers-up more salty popcorn. She dumps it into her stinging mouth and chews methodically, savouring her own. . teeth